Chapter 26

Carlton shifted on the stool in the dark bar, slightly uneasy at being so obviously out in the open. Even with the reassuring weight of his backup weapon in his ankle holster, he missed the more comforting and familiar weight of his shoulder holster, but he couldn't wear it with his clothes. He tugged at the bottom edge of his shirt, which was a size too small on purpose, and tried not to look too obvious as he scanned the crowd for his contact.

Just as he was about ready to run from the bar after being hit on one time too many, a man with black hair in nothing but ripped jeans and a dog collar approached him, leaning in uncomfortably close, and whispered in his ear as he grabbed his thigh, "Name's Mark. I've got the merchandise. Three for an even Benjamin." The man pressed his body into Carlton's side, his hand moving further up his thigh, making him want to throw up, while his other hand slipped the drugs into his back pocket along with a quick grope, and then added, in a lecherous tone as he squeezed his ass, "And I'll give you something a little extra for free, gorgeous."

He then ran his tongue over his ear and Carlton jabbed him in the ribs.

"Just the three, thanks. No' interested," he drawled out in his flawless fake Irish accent as he slipped him the hundred-dollar bill in the way that involved the least amount of touching.

The man pouted.

"You sure? All the boys I've met say my mouth is my best asset," he leered, looking pointedly between Carlton's legs and licking his lips.

The detective glared at him and snapped back with, "My boyfrien' wouldn't appreciate it. He don' like it when people touch things that aren't theirs…get me meaning?" He stared him down and the meth-head pulled back, his mouth going into a tight line the instant he heard the word 'boyfriend'.

"Fine, then."

As he walked away, Carlton flinched when he heard FBI investigator Agent Travis Kessler's voice in his earpiece saying, "Aw, detective. I think you hurt his feelings. Now, how about that merchandise?"

Inwardly seething, but trying to keep calm, he simply muttered, "You'll get it when I've gotten all the information. Mark is just a pawn, but if you've done your surveillance correctly," he snipped, "Then you should have no problem seeing where he's headed. I'm rather pinned down and it would look strange to go after him after I've already turned him down."

Feeling slightly smug when Kessler replied, "Just…give us a moment," he turned back to the bartender and motioned for another tonic water. He wasn't drinking, of course. Even if he was there for something other than work, he wouldn't be drinking. This wasn't exactly his sort of scene…though it might have been Shawn's at one point. He winced as he thought of it, and tried not to imagine Shawn in an open button-down and tight pants out on the dance floor grinding away against other men's bodies.

But it was hard not to. The man was attractive, after all, and he would have been catnip in a place like this. Someone would have caught his eye. Someone like Mark, perhaps. A young, firm body; eager, ready to please.

Lassiter's jaw tightened as he thought of how Shawn had taken it when he'd found out about him being undercover. Denying him dinner had been the least of his problems. He wouldn't even talk to him directly, and had pouted like a twelve-year-old girl in a fight with her best friend, ferrying notes and messages to him through everyone else, even when they were in the same room together.

He had thought about saying no to Kessler, but he knew that he couldn't. The FBI had their own investigation, and it was helping him run his.

The Irish mob had just happened to be running their drugs and laundering their money through one of the local gay bars, D'Oro, and it just so happened that there had been two murders in the past four months near or around the bar. Both of the victims had been frequent customers, and had been killed the same way: their throats were slit.

He and the Chief had decided to keep that bit of information under their hats when Kessler had come knocking at their precinct door, looking for a local cop who could help them infiltrate the Irish mob without tipping anyone off. The bit that Lassiter had left out of telling Shawn was that he'd volunteered for the job. Vick had even warned him not to, knowing that Shawn wouldn't take it well. Carlton had brushed it off, thinking that she was overreacting. Apparently, however, she was right. Shawn hadn't taken it well.

He threw back the rest of his tonic water, the carbonation fizzing uncomfortably in the back of his throat, and he moved towards the front door to leave when he heard Kessler say, "Carlton, on your nine o' clock. Man in the gray suit. He's the one your boy Mark talked to. Ran facial recognition, and it's him. O'Daly. Go and introduce yourself, use your alias. Make it clean."

Slightly annoyed that he was going to have to do it on the fly, Carlton adjusted his shirt one more time and wandered over in O'Daly's direction.

He managed to make it look like an accident when he brushed up against him, nearly knocking his drink from his hand.

"Oh, 'scuse me, sir. Don' mean to give you an upset." He patted the man on the shoulder, and was met with a piercing look. O'Daly was the same height as him with a lean build, and was surprisingly tan for an Irishman. Brown eyes caught Lassiter's blue, and the man gave him a small smile.

"No problem here," he drawled, looking Lassiter up and down. "Now, who might you be? I know e'eryone who comes in here, an' you're a fresh new face. Not that I'm complainin', mind you," he added, leering slightly, and then said, "Bu' I keep a close eye on anyone new."

Don't give more information than they've asked for, he reminded himself.

"David Lassiter," he answered, extending his hand, which was received well with a firm handshake.

"Lassiter! Well, another one with green blood in 'is veins. Good to see a friendly face," he said, smiling, still holding his hand. "An' where d'you hail from, Lassiter?"

"Bere Island."

He smiled again and slowly dropped his hand, bringing it back to his drink, and said, "Ah, Bere Island. Ne'er been there, meself, bu' I hear good things 'bout it. My name's Evan O'Daly, of Dublin. Now, enough small talk. How 'bout I buy you a drink, boyo? Will that do?"

The detective nodded.

"That'll do fine."

Evan gave him a broad smile and escorted him back towards the bar, a hand resting comfortably on his shoulder, guiding him. As much as he wanted to break the fingers on his hand and then throw a mean left hook at the guy's disgustingly perfect face, instead he simply smiled and let himself be manhandled up to a stool.

"What'll you have?" he asked, and Lassiter quickly replied, "Whatever your havin'," and knew it was the right answer when the man grinned and then ordered them both an Irish whiskey on the rocks. He wasn't a fan of the drink, but he shot it back anyway, much to the amusement of O'Daly, who looked at him over the edge of his glass with a sly smile as he took a quick sip of his own drink. He waited for the Irishman to speak first, and wasn't disappointed when he put his drink down on the black glass and leaned in closer and whispered, "I noticed you're a new customer. Mark didn'a seem to catch your eye, which tells me you're a man o' discernin' taste."

The detective said nothing, merely taking another sip of his drink, not quite meeting his eye.

After a moment, Evan leaned back and said, "You 'ave a boyfrien', don' you?" He glanced at him, but said nothing. The older man continued. "I can tell. There's a certain way 'bout you, and how you're lookin' at people. You're not lookin' at 'em like possibilities…you're lookin' at 'em like none of them measure up."

Carlton remained silent and shot back the rest of his drink, wincing as it burned down his throat.

"I respect that."

Finally, Carlton said, "Di' you actually want somethin' from me, or are you just gonna bore me by talkin'?"

The drug runner smiled and leaned forward, pressing almost uncomfortably close to him, and then whispered in his ear, "I'm lookin' for a new client to…move a few things for me. Someone new that won't draw any attention. The pay is more than generous, I assure you. D'you think you're up for it?"

He finished off his drink and looked O'Daly in the eye.

"Count me in."

O'Daly smirked.

"I think this'll be a good friendship, David." He offered his hand and Carlton shook it. "Here, tomorrow night. Ten o'clock. Don't be late."

Lassiter nodded.

He left him at the bar, and after a decent amount of time had passed, Lassiter stepped out and walked over to his car and said into his earpiece, "I'm in."

Kessler replied, "Good. Now the real fun begins."

He pulled out his earpiece and put it on the passenger's seat, and sat for a moment, staring at his steering wheel for a few seconds before putting his key into the ignition and pulling out of the parking lot. As he drove home, he thought about what he was doing and if it was worth it. He hated the fact that he'd had to lie to Shawn, but he hadn't had much of a choice. If Spencer got involved, it would definitely put him at risk, and that wasn't a risk he was willing to take again; not when there was someone out there targeting gay men.

Carlton gritted his teeth and silently reminded himself why he was doing it: O'Daly was incredibly well connected, and he would most likely know who was targeting men at the club. Catching him for drugs was just a bonus. In the end, it was about catching a murderer.

He pulled up to the apartment and cringed when he saw the light on. Shawn had waited up for him. It was one in the morning.

He dragged himself up the stairs and the instant he walked in the door, the younger man yelled out to him, "Leftovers are in the fridge if you want them, Lassi." He was back in the bedroom. He didn't have to see him to hear the agitation in his voice. Lassiter bypassed the kitchen and walked to the bedroom door, his hand going for the handle…and then stopped. No. Not tonight. He'd talk to him in the morning, when they were both better rested and less likely to say things that they didn't mean.

Shawn was pissed and Carlton knew it.

He pulled open the door to the fridge. A plate with potatoes, ham, and pineapple sat on the shelf, covered in plastic wrap. He pulled it out and popped it into the microwave, starving after having not eaten since five thirty earlier that day. Or was it the day before, now?

Brushing it off, he pulled it out and took a few bites, thanking the lord that his boyfriend was a better cook than he was. As he chewed, he thought about the tone he'd heard in his voice. He could recognize it anywhere. It had been clipped and short, and he hadn't said anything more than he'd needed to. Shawn was good at being angry, and was usually right when he was, and that's what bothered the detective so much. That he was right to be angry with him.

He sat down at the table and finished his dinner, wondering if he should wash it down with a beer, but then remembered. Shawn had removed all alcohol from his apartment when he'd moved in. What was the phrase he'd used? Oh, yes. That he didn't want him "lost weekending" if he was ever out of town. Shawn didn't like it when he drank.

He got up and put his plate in the sink, and moved to the cabinet to pull out a glass to pour himself some water…and he did a double take at what he saw on the shelf.

Next to a crystal tumbler was a bottle of Booker's Bourbon and on top of it, a yellow post-it-note.

Lassi, I thought you might need a drink of something decent after some bad Irish whiskey. By the way, O'Hara sucks at lying.

A faint smile appeared on his lips.

Tomorrow. They would talk about it tomorrow.

Part 26/?